Better Than Nothing
by ancientmaverick
Summary: What happens to the people who are sent home? And what happens when one of those people is Evan Lorne? Letters from one of the nurses. May or may not be complete.


_AN: This is just an idea I had while sitting in class one day. I've always wondered what happens to the people who are sent back to Earth after being fed upon. And as usual, this just went in a completely different direction after I started writing it. I have an unhealthy obsession with Lorne, and as soon as I learned his real name, I just had to write a story about him. I think I'm going to keep his middle name as Marcus, though._

_Anyway, if you love it, tell me. If you hate it, still tell me so I can make it better. Enjoy!_

xXxXxXxXx

Dear Mom,

I doubt the military will let you read this letter. And even if they would, I probably won't end up sending it. I really just need someone to talk to, to tell about the things I see every day. There's just something about mothers that makes it easy to talk to them. And I guess I'm really writing this to all of my patient's mothers as well.

If there's anyone in the world who has a more depressing job than me, I'd like to meet them. Quite frankly, though, I don't think you're going to find anyone who fits the bill.

See, I switched jobs since the last time I saw you. I am now one of the nurses at Fort Jackson in Colorado, near Cheyenne Mountain. Been here a few months, now. It's a pretty small place, exclusively for military personnel, but it has some of the tightest security I've ever seen at a military base.

It was only after I accepted the job that I learned the reason for this. I had a nice, relatively quiet life in Iraq, but my tour was almost up, and I put in for a transfer to a base somewhere in the U.S. I was expecting a cushy assignment in D.C. or in one of the training camps, but then this General shows up and asks me a bunch of questions about my specialization in trauma cases.

First, I was a little suspicious that a General would care that much about a lowly Lieutenant. Second, I was a little wary of anything in the U.S. that would produce trauma patients. But, being the curious person that I am, I answered all of his questions and said that, yes, I would love to sign a non-disclosure agreement and move to Colorado.

I started working two weeks later. When I first arrived, I was given an I.D. badge, a twelve digit password, retinal scans and another non-disclosure agreement. I was then informed that a thorough security background check had been made. That was fine with me, but I began to think I would be working with stuffy old Generals or the SEALS or Special Ops with all the red tape I had to get through.

Mom, I couldn't have been further from the truth.

It turns out I had been assigned to one of the most top secret facilities on Earth. All the new people were given a briefing about the secret base under Cheyenne Mountain, about a device called the Stargate that can send people to other planets.

More specifically, they told us about the city in another galaxy called Atlantis. It was this city that gave us our primary patients. All the wounded marines, airmen and civilians who were a part of an expedition to the city would be our responsibility.

Don't misunderstand me. Atlantis has an infirmary of its own. But occasionally, things happen there that they can't deal with, at least not as far as long term care goes. Actually, we get new patients every two or three weeks here.

Most of the patients have the normal wounds you'd see from a firefight or aircraft crash. They're here for a few weeks, do their rehab and then they're gone again, I guess back to Atlantis. These patients are easy to care for. Sure, they have the requisite nightmares and they are sometimes reluctant to talk about their experiences in another galaxy, but most of the time, they're patched up pretty good when they leave.

It's the other patients that make my job so depressing and horrible.

Two months ago, I treated a young airman with a mangled leg. He had been injured in a crash and needed some pretty extensive therapy. He healed up really well, though, and we sent him back with our best wishes.

Yesterday, he came back.

But he was different. I don't just mean mentally. Physically, he had aged about fifty years. He looked like Grandpa did just before he died, and I don't have to tell you, I was in shock.

I'd heard stories from the other nurses about this. I guess this kind of thing happens a lot in Atlantis, courtesy of some aliens called Wraith. I've also heard that most of the people that this happens to don't live to talk about it.

This is hard. You don't know what it's like to have a perfectly healthy, vibrant young man in front of you one day, and then have that same man age overnight.

I'm actually writing this as I watch him sleep. There has to be someone with him 24/7 for the next few weeks. It's standard policy that any patient like this goes directly on suicide watch.

You can't blame them, really. I can't imagine what it's like, to suddenly lose the best years of my life, to know that I will never get them back.

To be reduced to a wisp of a person, unable to care for myself in even the most basic of ways.

I'd probably be tempted to kill myself, too.

But that's not what we're here to do. They recruited the best and the brightest of our world to help these men and women heal mentally, emotionally and physically. And if we can't achieve one or even two of these, we have to strive for the third. I guess something is better than nothing.

I was never this cynical before. Even in Iraq, with everything I saw there, it didn't compare to what I see every day here. It's almost –

o0o

Sorry about that, mom. There were a few new patients that came in, and I had to leave off with your letter for a few days.

The airman I mentioned before is recovering. He's actually gained a few years back, though he still looks like he's about sixty-five. The effects of the Wraith feeding tend to lessen over time, though it's impossible for us to reverse what happened entirely. He's slowly beginning to cope with his new situation, and I think he'll be out of here in another week or so.

I have a new patient to sit with now. He wasn't fed upon, he's not on suicide watch, he's not even awake yet. There's no real medical reason for me to be sitting here, watching his chest rise and fall in time with the ventilator.

But it's Evan.

I haven't seen him for at least a year. I had a two week leave in January and he just happened to be visiting his family at the same time. He didn't mention then where he was stationed, but he's been part of some top secret stuff for years, so I didn't question it.

I told you most of what happened when I was on leave, but I didn't tell you about the three days I spent with Evan, just talking about life and what we wanted to do with it. I guess those few days stirred up some old feelings from when we were high school sweethearts. I've thought about him every day since he left.

I guess I was thinking about him when that General came to see me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew it was possible that I would be sent to wherever Evan was, and then we could see where things went.

Well, I got my wish. Here he is, barely alive. I've got him all to myself, and there's almost nothing I can do for him. I talk to him sometimes, read to him, hold his hand, but right now, it's the machines that are keeping him alive.

There was another man who came in with Evan and the other new patients. He wasn't injured himself, but I got the impression that he wanted to make sure his people were being well taken care of. I think his name might have been Sheppard. Anyway, he said that Evan had been possessed or something by some alien organism, and that they had gotten rid of the alien, but they couldn't seem to get Evan to wake up.

They're not even sure he's still in there.

But I'm not worried about that, mom. I know Evan, and I know he's not giving up this easily. That's why I'm here. To make sure he knows he's not alone.

Anyway, mom, I'd better get back to work. I've got rounds, and that Colonel, Sheppard, is coming in an hour to check on everyone. Since I can't mail this letter to you, I may just keep writing, but for now I'm going to stop.

Love,

Trista


End file.
